Pray To Stay Dead

by Cole, Mason James

  Now both were asleep, Stacy on a cot that Misty had retrieved from the bedroom closet, Charles on the three large seat cushions he’d removed from the sofa and arranged on the ground before the coolers. “I don’t want to be away from you,” he’d told Misty, voice slurred and stifling a belch, placing the cushions on the floor with slow determination, his face grim.

  After Stacy and Charles had sailed into drunken oblivion, Misty had turned off the television and sat alone in silence, her ass hurting from sitting in the same chair all damned day, her eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. She wanted to go into the back and crawl into bed next to Crate and sleep until this was over, or, at the very least, until tomorrow. Let Charles and Stacy Starshine serve as their frontline defense—there was a sturdy lock on the door leading from the store and into her house.

  Even though she’d reminded him that the large light over the parking lot could be shut off at the breaker box, or perhaps because she’d done so, Crate had taken it out with one well-placed shot from his rifle. The place sat in darkness. The store would not be a beacon to the dead. The living, on the other hand, well. A lot of people knew where it was.

  She turned on the television and clicked through the channels, hopeful that some programmer would be merciful enough to give them a break from the endless stream of horror. Was an Andy Griffith rerun at three in the morning too much to ask for, even one with a ticker at the bottom of the screen letting visitors to Mayberry know just how much closer they were to drowning in their own blood?

  No such luck. Each of the network affiliates were going full steam, twenty-four seven, exchanging one jumped-up or dead-eyed anchorman for another every five or six hours and pouring forth a steady stream of pundits and experts, each of whom seemed to have exclusive ideas about just what the hell was happening. And a lot was happening, all at once. The dead rose and walked and devoured the living; and the kings of the earth reacted in the only manner known to them: they rattled sabers and readied the war machines.

  None of it made a lick of difference, and every word and image and implication washed over her. In Crate’s small apartment out back, Eric Tasgal lay unconscious atop a blanket, hands and ankles bound, an infection smoldering in his right forearm. He was dying, she knew, and because of her actions his final moments would be needlessly worse. He’d come to her for aid and had instead become a prisoner. And why?

  Misty killed the TV, got up, and stepped around the counter and to the door looking out upon the parking lot. She cracked the blinds, just a sliver, and peered into the night in time to see the black form of the dead thing stumble from the porch. It crept along between the burn pile and Tasgal’s car, and not for the first time she cursed herself for not moving the car sooner. In a few hours, at first light, she’d go out and move it herself, if she had to. Even down the road, just a bit, would be better—abandoned, door thrown wide, glove compartment turned out. And there was still the matter of the body in the passenger seat.

  She watched the dead thing until it was consumed by the shadows, until her eyes tricked her into believing that the darkness was alive and churning with the dead, churning by the hundreds and pressing in on her. Heart racing, she slid her finger from between the blinds and backed away from the door until her ass bumped into the waist-level ice cream cooler.

  Charlie snored and snored, and Stacy did not stir. Misty looked at her place, at her meager little slice of life, and suddenly she wanted both Charlie and Stacy gone, out, anywhere but where they were. Anywhere but her place, where they would drink her beer and eat her food, never mind that there would be no more supply trucks, no more fresh bread or peanut butter or quart cans of apple juice.

  Could she make them leave? Could she really do that, send them on their way with a little water, a little food, and her best wishes? Both of them had houses within walking distance, but both of them were terrified.

  Crate certainly could send them on their way, and he would, too, if only she gave the word.

  She stepped over Charles and eased open the beer cooler’s glass door, plucked out a bottle of Bud and popped its top using the opener affixed to the wall to the left of the cooler door. Downing half of it in three large gulps, she left the store behind and walked past her living room and down the hall. There was a scrap of duct tape on the floor. The ruts pressed into the carpet by the wheelbarrow were still visible, trailing down the hall and toward the back door. She took her time going up the stairs.

  Crate lay in bed, right in his old spot, like he’d never given it up to emptiness and other men. He reeked of smoke and sweat and charred human flesh, and he hadn’t even bothered to take off his boots. His rifle was at hand. Bilbo Baggins was pressed close to his side. Both of them breathed gently, seemingly in unison.

  She watched them for a while and then loafed back downstairs and into the store, past her sleeping guests and into the deli, where she threw a few slices of ham and cheese between two slices of mashed white bread and stood eating, her gaze locked on the door leading outside. She belched, loud, like a man, not bothering to stifle it. She chased her sandwich with a bag of potato chips.

  She paced the aisles, running her fingers along the dusty lids of the canned baked beans and canned soup. Light passed across the blinds and moved in horizontal stripes over the adjacent wall. An engine purred and was silenced. Doors slammed, feet crunched on gravel, and a single gunshot popped in the pre-dawn silence.

  “Dammit,” Misty said, taking an indecisive step toward the door leading into the back, into her house. Someone hammered a clenched fist against the glass.

  “Miss Misty,” someone said, and he sounded like Jeff Karlatos, but that couldn’t be right—he was long gone, up north, having moved on to parts unknown.

  “Jeff?” She said, stepping toward the door and touching the small keyring in her pocket. “That you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Can you open up?”

  She held a pause. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just open up, okay?” He sounded scared. “I got a flat and I hurt my hand changing the tire. I’m bleeding bad.”

  “Oh,” she said, slipping the key ring from her pocket. It took her a few moments to find the right key. She slid it into the lock, turned it, and that’s when someone who wasn’t Jeff Karlatos laughed. “Fuck.”

  The bell rang and Jeff shouldered past her. His hands were neither hurt nor bleeding. He was followed by Drew Baker and Greg Haggarty. Karlatos and Haggarty each carried a rifle, and Baker was dressed in a tight California State Trooper uniform, the left shoulder and collar of which were rigid with dried blood.

  Baker was a drunk who did odd jobs around town and who mostly kept to himself. Haggarty was the son of Greg Sr., pastor of the now defunct Harlow Baptist Church, some six years in his grave. Baker was thin and pale and wiry. Haggarty was fat, so fat that Misty often wondered how he bathed and did his business, what with those short arms.

  “What the hell is going on, Jeff?” She said, though she knew exactly what the hell was going on. “Hurt your hand?”

  “Listen, Misty,” Jeff said, looking a little disappointed in himself. He glanced down at his hands, and at the rifle held in their grasp. “We’re not going to hurt anyone, okay? And we’re not going to take everything. We’re just going to take a few things.”

  “We’ll take what we need,” Haggarty said, loafing by and tainting the air with a noxious blend of sour sweat and improperly-wiped ass. He went straight for the candy aisle and slid various chocolate bars into the pockets of his baggy and stained sweatpants.

  Baker followed, briefly making eye contact with Misty as he walked by. He stopped, hands on his hips, and surveyed the store. The gun hanging from his belt looked big enough to knock him over, should he fire it. He adjusted the collar of the ill-fitting State Trooper uniform.

  “Playing dress-up, Drew?” Misty said, lacing her words with as much ridicule as possible. It wasn’t a wise move, but fuck it and fuck him. He spun on his heel and pointed a long finger
at her face.

  “You just shut up, you old bag,” he said, shaking his finger once. His eyes were dumb and distant, his words smeared around the edges. “Keep your mouth shut and we’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jeff Karlatos said.

  “Save it,” Misty said.

  “Turn on the lights,” Baker said, and Misty didn’t move from where she stood. Stacy and Charles stirred, and Misty’s gaze moved to the door leading into the back. She’d left it open. Could Crate hear any of this?

  Karlatos went to the front door and flipped the light switch. The fluorescents stuttered to life. Charles sat up, what little hair he had a frenzied mess. He fumbled for his glasses and, sliding them on, looked up in open terror at their visitors. The color drained from his alcohol-flushed cheeks.

  “God,” he said. “What? What is this?”

  “Shut your fool mouth, Charles,” Misty said. “Just sit right there and shut up.”

  Baker walked over to Charles. “She’s right,” he said. “You should shut your mouth, but you can’t stay there.” Baker snapped his head toward the coolers. “You’re in the way.”

  “Drew?” Charles said. He looked disgusted and terrified and confused. “Why the hell are you dressed like that?”

  “Move,” Baker screamed. Chuck’s face crumpled, and he scrambled away on his hands and knees, kicking apart his makeshift sofa cushion bed. He reached one of the tables and pulled himself to his feet, swaying.

  “Sit your ass and calm the hell down,” Baker said, removing a can of beer from the cooler and tossing it to Chuck, who didn’t bother trying to catch it. It hit his chest and fell to the floor, where it popped and hissed and sprayed a drift of foam between his feet.

  Baker retrieved another beer from the cooler, this time for himself.

  “Don’t kill me,” Chuck said, tears spilling down his cheeks.

  “Jesus,” Misty said. Stacy grunted once, readjusted herself upon the cot, and went right on sleeping the sleep of the righteously shitfaced.

  “You sure you want to leave?” Haggarty asked, mashing a Snickers bar into his mouth.

  “Time to go shopping,” Baker said, popping the top of his beer and knocking it back. He nodded once to Karlatos, who stepped out of the store and returned a few seconds later, pulling a rattling Proust’s shopping cart over the raised threshold. The right front wheel spun.

  “Where’s the old man?” Baker said, looking from Karlatos to Misty and back. Misty wondered the same thing, but didn’t let it show.

  “He’s asleep,” Misty said. “Out back in his apartment, stone cold drunk.”

  “He wasn’t drunk earlier,” Karlatos said, frowning. Stacy grunted again, and Karlatos’s gaze played across her covered form. Baker eyed Misty. Haggarty tugged the cart away from Karlatos and, laying his rifle across the place where a small child could sit, pushed it to the canned food shelves.

  “Guys?” Haggarty said.

  “No,” Misty said. “But we all know what a few hours and a bottle of Jack can do to a man.”

  “Yes we do,” Baker said, an idiot grin spreading across his face.

  “I can bring you out back, if you like, and show you,” she said, hoping that Crate was laying low, listing, waiting to take action. More likely, he still slept, and it was probably for the best: had he been awake and standing guard outside with Bilbo at his feet, he’d probably be dead. “But if it’s all the same I’ll have you let him be.”

  “Not necessary,” Baker said. He noticed the television and nodded toward it. “Anything new?”

  “No,” Misty said. “Same stuff, just worse.”

  “We’re going to leave you with enough,” Baker said, softening his tone.

  “I’m sure you will,” she said. “And the next guys to come around will take the rest.”

  “I doubt it,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because next time you’ll have your guard up,” he said, looking away from Misty. “Put some of those cans back, fatso.”

  “My ass,” Haggarty said, looking at Baker, a can of baked beans clutched in his plump hand. “We’re going to need this food. And why the hell are we leaving, anyway?”

  “What?” Baker said.

  “I’ve been saying since we left your place, but you don’t listen to me.”

  “No wonder,” Baker said. “You’re an idiot.”

  “We should stay here,” Haggarty said, tossing the can of beans into the shopping cart.

  “We need to keep moving,” Baker said.

  “Bullshit,” Haggarty said, and Misty felt a shift. Whatever plans these assholes had laid were tenuous, at best. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, and we’ve got a load of supplies and food and the lights are still on, for God’s sake.”

  “For now,” Baker said, as if that shot down Haggarty’s entire point.

  “Oh, God,” Charles said, weeping into his hands.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Haggarty said. “We lay low here for a while, wait to see how things go.”

  Baker stared at Haggarty, his fingers playing across the grip of the stolen gun resting upon his hip. Karlatos hovered beside Misty, silent and unmoving, his gaze distant and unfocused. Haggarty stood with his arms crossed atop his massive gut. “You know I’m right,” he said.

  “You’re not staying here,” Misty said, staring at the side of Baker’s head until he turned and met her gaze. She could tell by the look in his eyes that his fat friend was winning him over.

  “Oh?” Baker said, taking a step toward her, his face a coalescing swirl of emotions. He didn’t know what was going on or what the hell he was going to do from one moment to the next, but he was getting angry, and for guys like Baker (Misty had known her share of them), nothing cleared up a confusing matter like a nice shot of anger.

  “It’s my place,” she said, holding his gaze, her legs growing weak. She hoped he couldn’t tell how terrified she was. “You don’t stay here unless I ask you to.”

  “Is that so?” He half smiled, looked at Haggarty, who laughed once. “You hear this shit, Jeff?”

  Jeff didn’t say anything, but Misty didn’t wait for him. “That’s right,” she said, nodding, trying to soften her tone, loosen her brow. “But you’re welcome to stay the night if you want to. Get some rest. I can fix everyone a hot meal and then send you on your way with supplies, no charge.”

  “Generous,” Baker said, his fingers tapping an erratic little number on the grip of his revolver. He looked back at Haggarty. “Fill the cart. We’re leaving.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you thought, you tub of shit, just fill the damn cart,” Baker said, wheeling to face Karlatos. “And why don’t you help him?”

  “Huh?” Karlatos asked, blinking, surfacing from somewhere else. Misty followed his line of sight. Her heart grew cold.

  Stacy had pulled herself into a sitting position. Her bare feet were on the floor. She looked around, her eyes listless, her movements labored. Her hair was a mess and her shirt had been pulled taught, the v-neck collar stretched down to reveal the swell of her right breast. The cloth of her shirt was thin, and her nipples pressed against its surface.

  This was Stacy—you got used to the way she dressed same as you got used to her nonsense claptrap about crystals and spirits and Bigfoot taking a crap in the hills: bare legs, short shorts, and a loose-fitting white shirt that hung like a ghost.

  “Oh, hey,” Baker said, taking a step toward Stacy, who pawed sleep from her eyes with one hand while massaging her temple with the other. “Stacy Starshine.”

  She looked up, blinking, shielding her eyes with one hand and taking in Baker’s uniform, the look of bewilderment on her face changing. She went from looking like a woman who had no idea where she was to one who knew exactly where she was. Misty glanced at the doorway leading into the back.

  Charles sat at the table blubbering into his hands, his shoulders hitching.

  “Com
e on,” Karlatos said, waking up to what was in the air. He stepped past Misty and put a hand on Baker’s shoulder. “Let’s just pack up what we need and go, like we planned.”

  Baker shrugged him off. “Haggarty was right. I think we should stay a while,” he said, his voice taking on the singular flat quality Misty associated with men whose minds had been wiped clean simply because their balls needed emptying.

  “Drew,” Stacy said. “What’s going on? Why are you dressed like a cop?”

  “I found it,” he said, glancing at Haggarty. “I like the way it looks on me.”

  “Oh,” Stacy said. “Yeah. It looks nice.”

  “So do you, look nice,” Baker said, and Haggarty chuckled.

  “No,” Misty said, stepping toward Baker. Karlatos grabbed her by the shirt and pulled her toward him, his large hands closing around her flabby biceps and pressing her arms against her sides.

  “Don’t,” Karlatos whispered, close to her ear.

  “You can’t do this,” Misty said.

  “I can do whatever I want to do,” Baker said, shooting a spiteful glance in her direction. He lifted the beer to his mouth and finished it off, crushing the can. “And if I get a few more of these in my blood, I just may be able to do it to you, too.”

  He threw the can across the store. It clattered onto the floor behind the deli counter. Charles jumped, his watery eyes large above his fingers, which tugged at his cheeks and eyelids.

  Misty struggled to free herself from Karlatos’s grasp but he was stronger than he looked. His fingers sank into the flesh of her arms and she knew that she’d have bruises, if she lived long enough.